


Light Me Up And Breathe In

by HexMeridian (myrainbowshoelaces)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - No Sburb/Sgrub Sessions, Blow Jobs, Flirting, Hair-pulling, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mild S&M, Smoking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-11-01
Packaged: 2018-08-27 19:22:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8413627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrainbowshoelaces/pseuds/HexMeridian
Summary: Nightclub owner slash tech entrepreneur Dirk Strider catches the fancy of Billionaire CEO Jake English one Friday night. Turns out they both need to relieve a little tension.





	1. We Smokin' Em All

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by one of the songs on Lady Gaga's new album, [A-Yo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-l5G5BT8-fQ). Jammed for my lovely Discord friends, and Beta'd by the incomparable [Taz](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tazzypillar/pseuds/Tazzypillar). Starts with tense flirting and slowburn but there's definite porn on the horizon, I assure you.

You’re making a moscow mule when he steps into the bar, windswept and flushed from the outside cold. Friday nights aren’t on your regular schedule, but when you’re half of a sibling duo that owns and runs the hottest nightclub in Houston, work is eternally a quick phone call and a mad dash downstairs away.

He’s got dark hair, curled and damp from the unseasonal weather. His glasses frame a pair of inquisitive green eyes. He’s wearing shorts that leave next to nothing to the imagination, has a pistol in a holster on his thigh, and his smile displays a slight buck-toothed overbite.

You’d recognize him anywhere.

Originally your brother was gonna owe you for this big time.

Now you’re gonna have to thank him. It’s not every day the CEO of SNLabs walks into Club Stride.

“Dirk. Dirk. Dirk Dirk Diiiiiirk!”

You turn at the sound of your older sister calling your name from her spot at the other end of the bar. She’s three martinis in and wearing void-black lipstick, which means she’s here for pleasure instead of business, perched on a stool with catlike balance. If the cat were drunk and looking to get drunker.

You deliver the mule to the tall troll woman waiting on the other side of the bar and cross to greet Roxy, trying to hide your exasperation.

“Looking for a fourth drink to keep the others company, Rox? I thought your billionaire bffsy had you on a max of three a night?”

She rolls her eyes and taps one of her long nails on the countertop. “Just because I love Janey more than life itself doesn’t mean I’m a slave to her every whim. The OBEY campaign is pure irony and you know it. Gimme the usual and shimmy while you do it, we’ve got special company tonight.”

You roll your eyes in return, but do give your nonexistent hips a wiggle in time with the music as you mix your sister’s martini. She knows you know who she’s talking about. Jake English, billionaire philanthropist, adventurer, and inventor. Cousin to Crockercorp mogul slash your sister’s best friend Jane Crocker. No doubt here in your bar to celebrate the latest and greatest corporate acquisition that had essentially signed a peace treaty with the Alternian species. The two of them were number one and two spots on Earth’s ‘Hottest Thirty Under 30’ list, and your sister knows your taste in men.

You hope she’s not going to do anything fucking stupid.

“You should play hooky,” she says, giving you an exaggerated wink as you slide her another martini. “Get your lackeys to tend bar and come live it up on company cash with Earth’s most eligible bachelor!” Her eyebrows waggle so hard they look like they’re about to leap off her face.

“Can’t,” you keep your answer short, picking up an already clean glass and polishing it within an inch of its life. “Gotta hold down the fort. Dave’s up at the Embassy for some big troll event.”

“Ugh,” Roxy sighs, sipping her drink in feigned disgust. You always make them perfectly tailored to her taste: strong enough to fell an ox, with extra olives. “Trust Davey to be the smart one. Him and Rose both, where can I find a devastatingly hot Alternian ambassador to date?”

“Pretty sure they both have full dance-cards these days,” you shrug. “Rose and Kanaya are inseparable, and despite how many times a goddamn week it leaves me in the lurch here at work, Dave’s happy with Karkat, and that’s what matters.”

Roxy eyes you over the rim of her glass. “Sure,” she says. “But what about you, Dirky? Haven’t seen you with much of anyone, human or troll. Is your crush on a certain dashing CEO still keeping you single?”

You scowl and turn away. So it was going to be one of those nights. “I regret ever telling you anything about my nonexistent love life,” you mutter, reaching for one of the top shelf bottles you reserve for emergencies. Like being humiliated by your sister. “Why couldn’t you forget everything you hear when you’re intoxicated, like a normal person?”

She grins. “Harvey Wallbanger time already? Looks like the billionaire’s got you a little off kilter there, Di-Stri.”

You mix the vodka and orange juice expertly with a splash of Galliano. “Leave Harvey alone, we’re good friends. My kilter is exactly as on as it needs to be when I’m working, Roxy. Go play the social butterfly. See if you can convince English that Club Stride would be a worthwhile investment, Dave and I are always looking for new money.”

“Uh-huh,” Roxy waggles her eyebrows again. “It’s his money you want, not that choice booty.”

“God,” you down your drink a little too quickly, almost choking. If you can count on Roxy for one thing, it’s a brick-to-the-face level of subtlety. “He’s a CEO of a tech conglomerate who dates supermodels and movie stars, Rox. I’m a fucking bartender.”

“A partner owner of a nightclub with his own tech startup,” she corrects you, waving her toothpick of olives drunkenly in your direction. “Or have you forgotten your day job, Timaeus?”

You sigh and mix yourself another drink. Normally you avoid imbibing on the job but Dave’s out schmoozing with Alternian royalty on the arm of his alien boyfriend, so what is he gonna do about it? Jack shit is what. “Timaeus Testing is a lucrative side robotics business. Club Stride is my day job. Night job. Twenty four fucking hour job, seeing as I basically fucking live here.” You jerk your thumb towards the door out to the alley which leads to a rickety fire escape and the path up to your living space. “Regardless, neither of those is movie star or model. I’m not his type.”

Roxy looks like she’s going to protest but stops, glancing back at the table where Jane sits with Jake and a small entourage of corporate lackeys, waving her over. “Duty calls,” she shrugs, finishing her drink and leaving it at the bar. She doesn’t tip. You don’t expect her to. “Send over a bottle of champagne and keep up the shimmy, you can still work it even if you don’t have any junk in your trunk.”

“Beat it,” you reply, affectionate, and your sister blows you air kisses as she heads for the table and you return to your station, having one of your brigade deliver the bottle moments later. You resist the urge to stare at Jake English.

You fail to resist the urge when you catch sight of him smiling, sparkling eyes and genuine mirth as he laughs, no doubt at one of Roxy’s ribald witticisms. You’ve seen him before, of course you have, you have eyes and the internet at your disposal, but physical proximity is different from a pixelated screen, and he’s so attractive he should probably be arrested. Perhaps. Handcuffs should be involved at least. Maybe not on Jake. Definitely not on Jake.

You blink rapidly and quickly divert your gaze, knowing your sister will lambaste you later if she catches you staring at him, or worse, insist you abandon your post at the bar and come be humiliated directly and not just via pesterchum. You haven’t checked your phone but you fully expect to look at it later and find a half-dozen lewd typo-ridden cracks about lying back and thinking of England.

You love your sister but her faith in your ability to successfully flirt with anyone, especially Jake English, is woefully misplaced. The last time you made anything resembling an attempt you ended up spilling a bottle of expensive wine on yourself and starting a small fire in a Dim Sum restaurant. Not your worst experience when it came to dating, but one for the records, certainly.

An hour passes. You watch the bottle of champagne at the table steadily empty, though from the looks of things it’s Roxy making it that way. Jake still sips at the amber liquid in his flute delicately, not caring much for the taste from the look of things. You shouldn’t be analyzing him from a distance like some kind of obsessive stalker. He has enough of those of multiple genders and species.

He’s eager and enthusiastic, animated and alight with passion as he talks, presumably about his latest projects. He owns and runs an international - no, intergalactic - company. You’re still just the guy tending the bar with a ridiculous crush.

Somewhere between the first and second bottle of champagne Roxy convinces Jane and Jake that the best course of celebration for the evening is to get up and dance, and even the most dedicated of your alcohol-sodden clientele seem to flock to the central area of the club, whooping and shrieking along with the bone-shaking beats. You’re left to your devices behind the bar, leaving the actual mixology to your staff while you watch your sister and her friends.

Less your sister, more her friends. One friend in particular.

You’re ascending to god-tier levels of pathetic at this point.

It’s an old crush, nursed and cultivated over a span of several years of moving in the same online circles. In your defense, Jake English has always been the industry darling, and his ass plastered all over the TV has been a regular occurrence since SNLabs was founded two years back. You admired him even when he was just a regular on robotics forums, never someone you contacted directly but always someone on your periphery.

Years later he’s celebrating galactic peace through skilled use of capitalistic pragmatism, and you’re mixing the drinks at the party. Literally. While staring at his ass.

Not your finest hour.

The music picks up and you’re unsurprised to see Jake surrounded by groupies, most of them young women whose sense of decorum has been replaced by jello shots. You envy their ability to relinquish that much control.

You watch Jake English become swamped in a veritable ocean of plush gyrating co-ed rump, and decide fuck it, you need a goddamned cigarette.

You leave the bar in the capable hands of your assistant manager and step out into the alley behind the club, pack of Marlboro Lights and antique lighter in your fist. You lean against the wall and contemplate the pack briefly before indulging.

You’ve quit smoking at least half a dozen times already, usually at the insistence of your siblings, and you can hardly blame them. As far as habits go it’s a bad one, one that only leads to cancer and misery.

Four months and thirteen days since the last time you quit.

Fuck it, you’re already miserable.

“Having a bit of an existential crisis there, chap?”

You don’t jump, but the voice surprises you. Turning from your reverie and the pack of cigarettes in your hand, you look up to see a figure step through the backdoor of Club Stride into the alley, glittering eyes behind thick framed glasses, dark skin framed by darker hair, somewhat sheepish but ultimately calm smile on his face.

Jake English is talking to you in the alley behind your night club.

You’re gonna have to smoke this entire pack to get through this conversation without making a complete idiot of yourself.

“The great debate,” you manage, your voice a little dry as you tap the pack with your thumb. “Fight the good fight against slowly killing myself with nicotine or give in and waste months of hard work.”

He chuckles, a warm sound you want to wrap yourself in. He’s even more stunning when he’s a couple of feet from you, the details of his features jumping out and sharpened by the shadows cast by the streetlights. “A predicament I am certainly familiar with,” he says, leaning against the wall beside you. “Quit years ago, but damn if I don’t still fancy lighting one up every now and then.” He glances at you, offering a hand. “Jake English.”

You take the hand. He shakes it, firm, commanding. “Dirk Strider,” you say, trying to ignore the fact that your mouth feels like it’s full of sand. “I know who you are.”

“And I you,” he says, smile widening. “One of the proprietors of this establishment if I recall Roxy’s tale correctly. I must say, Club Stride is absolutely smashing, I’m ashamed it’s taken me this long to become a patron.”

You smile, slightly strained, trying not to lose your Patented Strider Veneer of Cool. “Hopefully a regular patron,” you say. “Jane practically owns that table in the back where you were all enjoying the Dom Perignon.”

He gives a little half shrug, but his smile doesn’t fade. You wonder how he isn’t freezing to death in those tiny shorts. Not that you’re complaining. “I am impressed with what I’ve seen so far,” he says. You wonder if you imagine him studying your face as he speaks. Wishful thinking, probably.

“We know what we’re about here at Club Stride,” you say, looking down at the pack of cigarettes again. “Cater to the lifestyles of the rich and famous. Should help you feel right at home.”

He laughs lightly, an almost musical sound. “I don’t know about that,” he says, leaning a little more heavily against the wall. “I admit that while the uproar of the rumpus on the dance floor is certainly titillating, I much prefer a quiet conversation.”

You can’t quite get the hang of his manner of speech. The accent isn’t one you can track to a particular region, and the slang he sprinkles into his words sounds more like something out of a 1930’s newsreel. “Is that what brought you out here?” You begin to peel the wrapper off your pack of cigarettes. “Quiet conversation?”

“Of a sort,” he replies. His eyes linger on your hands before he speaks again. “Would it surprise you to know that I’m familiar with your work, Timaeus?”

Your poker face remains, but only barely, not out of surprise but out of pride. Pride that Jake English knows of your work, undercut with a little flare of warmth in your stomach at the thought that he bothered to commit your existence to memory. “I operate in circles that intersect with yours in my other line of work,” you say, choosing your words carefully. “So, surprise isn’t the word I would use.”

Jake smiles, and the warmth in your abdomen spreads. Your fingers fumble at the wrapping on the cigarettes, dropping the plastic and making you frown. “Well, I must say, the advancements you’ve made in the field of Artificial Intelligences are nothing short of astounding, Mister Strider.”

“Dirk,” you correct him, emboldened by the compliment. You begin tapping the pack of cigarettes against the palm of your hand, part preparation and part nervous tic. “There hasn’t been a Mister Strider in decades.”

Jake’s whole face lights up, like you’ve just given him some kind of precious gift. “Very well then,” he says. “Dirk. An excellent name. Sturdy. Solid. Just the sort of man I like to see at the forefront of the digital revolution.”

You let out a quiet laugh. “Pretty sure you’re the one on the forefront of that particular revolution, Mister English,” you say, opening the pack carefully. “You man the barricades and rally the troops, I’m just a foot-soldier.”

“Jake, please,” Jake says, his smile seeming to settle on his face, determined to remain. “No need for such formalities. Roxy has told me so much about you I feel almost as if we are old friends!”

“Oh?” You make a mental note to murder your sister. “All of it lies, Roxy is notorious for stretching the truth into unrecognizable putty.”

“If what she says is untrue then I’m only more eager to get to know the man behind the mystery!” Jake continues, gesturing animatedly as he speaks. “Do you know how little information there is about you on the internet? It’s bloody hard digging anything up besides a professional website listing your credentials and rates, you’re a virtual ghost!”

“My brand is the product,” you say, shrugging one shoulder. “I make the best AI interfaces on the planet, and the rest of my persona sells drinks behind a bar. The two are unrelated and the connection’s only known to a few.” You glance at him. “Which makes me wonder how you made it. My sister let it slip after a few too many martinis?”

“Actually no,” Jake crosses his arms, studying you with an almost visceral intensity. “I said it was bloody hard to find information, not impossible. Especially not when I’m the proud owner of a number of your finest products.”

Your eyebrows go up. “Never seen your name on an invoice.”

“That’s because I don’t use my given name,” he replies, his tone smooth, nonchalant but also somewhat conspiratorial. “Difficult to investigate new technologies with such a notorious moniker. No, I make use of my grandma’s original surname, to maintain a level of anonymity.”

You roll this information around your mind a moment, recalling some of the major commissions you’d constructed over the past six months. A name surfaces from the mire of memory. “... Jacob Harley,” you say, folding your arms and giving him a level stare through your shades. “One of my best customers.”

“Quite,” he agrees, his smile somehow still incredibly earnest. You would have expected anyone else exacting a ruse of that caliber to be smug, but there isn’t a trace of arrogance or superiority visible on Jake’s face. Not what you were expecting. You’re starting to think you should throw all expectations you originally had of Jake English out of the nearest window. “And long time admirer.”

You try to ignore the sudden somersaults occurring in your stomach as you fight to keep your expression level. “Of my work?” you manage to ask.

“Among other things,” Jake says, and this time you know you don’t imagine his gaze sweep over you, calculating but also warm, sizing you up in the gentlest way possible. His eyes settle upon the pack of cigarettes in your hand. “Still having a crisis, or are you falling off the wagon?”

You look at the pack of cigarettes and sigh. “Hook, line, and sinker,” you say, pulling out two from the pack and holding one out to Jake in an offering. “Care to join me?”

Jake holds up a hand to stop you. “Afraid not, chum, I take my promises to my dear cousin Jane quite seriously, and she’s been quite adamant that I maintain my ride on this wagon.” He lowers his hand and his eyes glitter under the amber glow of the street lights. “I’d happily watch you partake in one, however.”

You feel your cheeks flush suddenly, wondering if you’ve misunderstood. Hard to do that when Jake seems to be something of an open book. He’s looking at you with something you’d be willing to identify as a longing, maybe even a hunger.

Maybe he just really wants a cigarette.

Or maybe he really wants to watch you smoke one.

Hardly the weirdest thing you’ve done for a handsome guy. You place the cigarette between your lips and fish your lighter out of your pocket, looking Jake in the eyes over the top of your shades. He blinks and his breath catches in his throat, not caught off guard per se but doubling down on his intrigue, his interest. The look the two of you share feels like an invisible cord tying you together.

You light your cigarette and breathe in, drawing smoky tar and nicotine into your lungs, the taste on your tongue strong, familiar, delicious. You almost hate how much you’ve missed the heady rush of the sensation of chemical stimulation, the jolt your brain receives in the moment you inhale, the feeling of purging all your stresses and sins as you release the smoke into the night. You don’t break Jake’s gaze, and watch his expression shift as you go through the process, inhale and exhale, drawing in and releasing to the universe.

He stares at you like you’re the answer to a question he never even knew he’s been asking, and you take another drag, turning to face him instead of leaning against the wall. Inhale smoke. Exhale stress. “Is watching as good as the real thing?” you ask, not even trying to hide the edge to your voice. You don’t know if it’s the drinks you had earlier or the ease at which you’ve been able to converse with him, but the usual hideous panic that wracks you upon speaking to an attractive man is swallowed up with something novel, something comfortable. What Jake said before feels true to you as well: he feels almost like an old friend. Someone you can trust.

Even if he isn’t, you know you’d like him to be.

He chuckles in response to your question, shifting his weight so he’s standing a bit closer, changing proximity by careful inches. “It causes a certain satisfaction,” he says. You notice that his gaze is directed at your lips and wonder exactly what satisfaction he means. “And for you?”

You sigh, releasing a curling cloud of smoke from your mouth that hangs between the two of you. “A hard backpedal on a decent track record for quitting,” you admit. “But there won’t be much harm in having just the one. Release a little tension.”

His eyes glitter again, and you see something in them you didn’t before. A kind of recognition. “A challenging task,” Jake agrees, giving you a slight nod. “How would you recommend releasing tension for those of us trying to avoid breaking promises to their cousins?”

You think about your other preferred stress relieving activities and feel the heat in your stomach curl a little tighter. “Looking for a break from the mad-dash world of being a rich billionaire entrepreneur?” you said, arching an eyebrow at him.

He shrugs one shoulder, still not taking his eyes off your lips around the cigarette. “As the CEO of my company, there’s a certain image I have to maintain,” he says. “My every move is carefully planned and orchestrated, scrutinized by my competitors, by the press, by my own employees. I honestly cannot breathe without another blasted person taking a note of it and entering it in a damned memo.” He sighs, watching you breathe in smoke, breathe out. “It is quite difficult to find myself in situations like this.” He gestures between the two of you. “Speaking with a person who doesn’t have any kind of agenda.”

“What makes you think I don’t have an agenda?” You aren’t sure what emboldens you, perhaps the look in his eyes, maybe the taste of nicotine in the back of your throat, the slight tingle and buzz of the vodka you imbibed on duty. You inhale, slowly, feeling your cheeks flush slightly at your blatantly flirtatious tone.

He tilts his head to one side, studying you thoughtfully. “I suspect I would enjoy your agenda far more than that of the paparazzi, Dirk,” he says. “At least if I understand what it is you’re implying.” His eyes sparkle a little brighter through the haze of smoke between you. “It’s rare I have the opportunity to have... fun. You strike me as a gentleman who knows a thing or two about it.”

You take a step towards him, feeling almost outside your body as you do so. You’d be lying if you said you hadn’t entertained fantasies of the chance to be this close to Jake Fucking English, but they all pale in comparison to reality. “Why, Jake English,” you begin, taking a drag on your cigarette and breathing it out slowly, tendrils of smoke curling around Jake’s glasses. You smile, all irony to hide the fact that you’re much too eager. “If I didn’t know any better I’d swear you were trying to seduce me.”

Jake’s smile matches yours, and he steps closer, inhaling the smoke you just released. “Honestly Dirk,” he says, taking the cigarette from your mouth and placing it between his fingers. “Do I really need to try?”

You make to answer, but the words die on your tongue as Jake English leans forward and presses his lips to yours.

He tastes sweet and fresh, a mix of champagne and sweat lingering on your lips as he kisses you. He isn’t exactly gentle, nor is he harsh, he’s simply very firm, certain, a man who knows what he wants.

He wants you.

You can feel your knees trying to give out. He wraps an arm around your waist, as if sensing your sudden unstable gait, and holds you steady as he carefully coaxes your lips open with his own, his breath hot and his tongue eager. Your tongue curls around his and you exchange his citrus sweetness for your smoky ash with every careful exploration, every breath in and out.

You both pause and he leans back, eyes still shining green and keen in the dim light of the alley. He places the cigarette back in your mouth, your lips still tingling with the taste of him.

“So,” he says, his voice low and liquid as he places his hand on your arm, still keeping you steady. “Was I successful?”

You breathe out, sending out a little bit of smoke. “You in the habit of picking up men you’ve just met in bars? Or am I just lucky?”

“Well, I admit I had a bit of a leg up,” Jake admits, looking almost apologetic. “You were right about your sister becoming quite fresh with her information when she’s been drinking.”

You feel your face heat up. “Well now I’m torn between murdering her and sending her a gift basket,” you murmur, reaching up to remove the cigarette from your mouth and tap the ash onto the ground. “What did she say?”

He regards you a moment as you return the cigarette to your mouth, still smiling. “Nothing too embarrassing, I can assure you of that. Merely that her brother, in addition to being a shrewd businessman and a brilliant developer of cutting edge technologies, was a very attractive and alarmingly single young man who could use some company.”

“Uh huh,” you inhale and exhale again, trying to ignore the creeping humiliation rising in your gut. “Doesn’t hurt that she told you about my raging crush on you either, does it?”

Jake has the decency to blush a little at that. “I admit, it did give me a level of confidence in the endeavor I normally lack,” he says. “But I was intrigued by you and your work well before Roxy’s little drunken slip-up, I assure you.”

You swallow, the cigarette almost down to the butt in your mouth and twitching up as your lips move. “I see,” you manage. “And, this was your idea of some fun?”

He smiles again, taking the cigarette out of your mouth again and dropping it on the ground, stamping it out with the heel of his boot. “This,” he agrees. “Maybe a few other things.”

“Yeah?” You know you sound a little breathless. Hard not to when you’re this close, you can see the little whirls of hazel in the green of Jake’s eyes, see the peppering of stubble along his jawline. “What other things?”

Jake grins, leaning in until his lips are maybe millimeters from yours. You can practically taste him from here, feel the tension built up in his muscles as his arm tightens around you. “I don’t know, Dirk, what comes to mind? Use your imagination.”

He’s like a coiled spring, maybe even a caged animal, careful and precise but needing to open up, needing to let loose. His eyes burn with a need entirely different from the careful control you’re sure he exerts at press conferences and in boardrooms. The release he seeks is not to relinquish control, but to direct it, to fine tune it and hone it to a keen-edged weapon, potentially devastating, potentially dangerous.

The look sends a thrill down your spine, makes your heart beat a little faster in your chest, turns your pants into a discomfort-filled prison. You wonder if SNLabs CEO Jake English makes a habit of picking up strange men at bars with the clear intent of domming the everloving fuck out of them. You wonder if his intentions are good, his goals anything beyond the use of you, what he has to gain from your body and your clear willingness to give in to him.

Jake closes the gap between your lips and his again. His kiss eliminates any possible fuck you could give.

The second kiss between you is more heated, fervent, like you acknowledging of his desires was a kind of permission to probe further, to pull you flush against his body and wind his other arm around your neck. You sigh into his mouth as the arm around your waist tightens further, holding you tight enough for certain signals in your brain to start tripping, bells ringing soft and suddenly getting louder as he steps almost gracefully, almost like a waltz, and turns you so that you’re pinned against the wall, arranged so he has one hand on your hip and another pressed into yours, fingers intertwined.

He breathes a soft laugh into your mouth as you gasp. “By gum, this is even better than I imagined,” he whispers. “I had no idea you were so… pliant, Strider.”

You gasp again as the hand at your waist drags up your chest, tracing a hard line over your pectoral muscles and ending at the curve of your neck, where he holds you firm, steady. So much about him feels steady, you feel as if giving over to his whim is perfectly natural, as easy as falling, as floating. “Well,” you manage as he tilts your head and begins to trace almost too-gentle kisses along your jaw. “I had no idea you were so… forceful, English.”

“We all have our quirks,” he counters, his hand slipping into your hair, his body suddenly pressed hard against yours as his mouth finds yours again, kisses deliberate and almost needy. You feel purpose behind every touch,the way his teeth drag across your bottom lip. You wonder if he’s had fantasies about you too, something you wouldn’t have considered for a second in any other sequence of events, and it makes you groan a little, especially since the thought occurs in concert with his fingers curling and tightening around the short hairs at the nape of your neck.

“Fuck,” you whisper against his mouth as his grip tightens and you go practically boneless, slumping against the wall and sagging in his grasp. His hand relinquishes yours immediately, gripping your hip and keeping you from melting to the ground at the sensation of his fingers tangled in your hair and holding, gripping tight and rendering you obedient, sending shooting pain and pleasure through your entire being.

Jake moves his hand to get a more solid grasp on your hair, twisting ever so slightly, enough to make you groan a little and flush as you feel the sudden tightness in your pants. Yeah, no way can you pretend that’s a roll of quarters pressing into his thigh. He smiles again, still earnest and still sweet, so genuine despite the nature of your interaction. “You really are delightful, aren’t you?” he murmurs against your throat, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Eager.” He squeezes your hip. “Do we need to take this somewhere a little less public?”

“I mean,” you manage, knowing your breath keeps catching in your throat, your voice high and strained. “Unless you want more than your ass to end up on TV, it’s really only a matter of time before some jackoff realizes you’re out here and tries to emblazon your tryst on national television.”

He chuckles, backing away just enough to encourage you to step away from the wall and follow him. “You have an alternative handy?”

“Its my bar,” you mutter, trying to shrug but unable to really move your shoulders at this angle, you’re still feeling brick against your shoulder-blades. “Of course I have alternatives.”

“Well then,” he steps back a few more paces and takes your hand, the picture of a gentleman. “Lead the way.”


	2. My Body's Got You Pleading

You aren’t sure Jake’s serious at first, can’t pinpoint his exact intent, but your head is still clear enough to push you to ask the necessary questions. “Should I be finding us a place with horizontal spaces and a drawer of questionable but useful prophylactics? Or just a private room with enough space for two bodies?” 

He smiles at you again, but you can see the fire in his eyes. “Whatever’s close,” he says, his voice husky, almost strained. “And convenient. At least for now.”

You feel your cheeks flush once again at the implications of ‘for now’, but focus on leading him toward the door into the club, dragging it open and stepping back into the hot press of bodies and the loud thump of the music rattling the walls. You recognize the track that’s playing, one of Dave’s mixes, and vaguely wonder what your brother would think about you taking a goddamned billionaire into the back room for what you suspect (okay, hope) will be illicit activities. 

He’d probably give you a high five, to be honest. Your score card for hook-ups is pretty fucking abysmal after all, tonight was practically worthy of the guinness book of world records.

You have to fight through the horde of humans to get to the back room, and you almost regret your decision when you catch sight of Roxy dancing with Jane within the crush of bodies. Your sister catches sight of you across the dance floor, sees you hand-in-hand with Jake, and looks like she’s about to give you a trademark Lalonde eyebrow waggle before she gets dragged towards the restroom by her exasperated best friend. 

You make a note to give Jane every drink on the house from here on out. 

Jake’s hand is still warm in yours as you lead him to the door marked ‘employees only’ near the far end of the bar. It takes you a second to fumble for the keys and Jake lingers behind you, glancing around at the crowd in clear suspicion. Your comment in the alley apparently piqued his paranoia. 

You step a little closer and press your mouth to his ear, whispering. “Don’t worry, This whole place is wired with my tech. Say the word and I’ll hit a button to make you disappear.” 

You hear him laugh softly, feel him give your hand a gentle squeeze. “Not altogether I hope,” he responds as you slide the key into the lock. “Would hate to vanish before the night is over.” 

Your hands slip on the doorknob a couple of times at the sound of his voice, but you persevere just long enough to shove the door open and stumble into the back room, empty save for storage containers and a cluster of tapped out kegs. It’s dark, but Jake makes it clear he isn’t interested in what either of you can see when he adjusts his grip so his hand is further up your arm, guiding you into another waltz-like turn and pressing you against the door, mouth finding yours and stealing another kiss, though willingly given. 

“Fuck,” you whisper again when you both come up for air, noting the way one of his hands is creeping up your back towards the nape of your neck again. You tilt your head back a bit to encourage him and you can practically feel his grin press against your throat. 

“I should ask,” he says, his words vibrating against your adam’s apple as he presses his lips to your skin, barely lifting them to speak. “Do you have a preferred safeword?” 

You gasp as his hand begins to wind its way into the locks of your hair. If this were any other situation you’d be throwing a monumental shitfit over the idea of anyone messing with your perfectly sculpted ‘do, but you’d also give just about anything for Jake to twine both his hands into your hair and keep that grip on you as tight as possible. You clear your throat a little. “Uh,” you say, the epitome of intelligence. “... Deep Blue.” 

Jake laughs soft against your throat, one hand curling into your hair and clenching into a loose fist. “How fitting for a man who designs artificial intelligences for a living. Hard limits?” 

“Hell,” you manage, trying not to press your head into his hand. You want his grip to tighten, want him to use his hands to tell you what he wants. “I’ll try anything once. You can decapitate me for all I care, let’s just make shit take place.” 

Jake’s grip tightens and you hiss out a breath through your teeth, the pain burning across your scalp, delicious. He tilts your head forward so he can look into your eyes again, your shades askew and hanging off of your ears and the tip of your nose. “Excellent,” he says, his tone smooth, honey sweet but still razor sharp. He speaks again and you feel every nerve in your body erupt. 

“Get on your knees.” 

You drop to the floor without hesitation, unafraid to express eagerness. It’s not just the prickling near-agony of Jake’s fingers tangled in your hair, it’s the tone of his voice, his clear and absolute certainty of what he wants. 

You wish you could be that direct about your desires. 

Of course, in this position, you don’t need to be. 

The floor is hard, stings your knees a bit, but you don’t care, you’re engrossed in the endeavor of fumbling with Jake’s shorts, feeling for his belt buckle in the dark and clumsily maneuvering it open. His other hand finds its way into your hair and he presses your face into his crotch, the feel of his cock hard against your cheek even through the tight fabric. He’s thick, you can tell even from this point of view, and you swallow, equal parts nerves and anticipation. 

“What do you want?” he asks, his voice somehow resonating despite the dull thud of the bassline on the other side of the door. “Tell me.” 

You look up at him, more a gesture than an ability to actually see him. You swallow again. “I… want to suck your dick,” you say, voice cracking a little. 

You can hear Jake smiling when he speaks again. “Good,” he says, his fingers tightening in your hair. “Jolly good.” 

Your instinctual response is to make a snide comment at his turn of phrase, but the urge is eradicated from your brain as Jake grips your hair and _pulls_ , hard and sharp to force you upright, making you gasp. He makes no move to help you with the zipper on his shorts, instead leaving the grunt work to your shaking fingers. You’re overstimulated and groaning again, the clasp sharp and cold as you tug at it, push your hand through the gap and fumble for him. He’s hard and heavy in your grasp, and you hear him sigh, contented, as you release his cock from the confines of his shorts. 

You think he mumbles something else, another ridiculous but somehow perfect Jake English turn of phrase like ‘tally ho’, but before you can process it his fingers are curled tight in your hair again, pressing you towards him. Your mouth opens automatically -- of course it does, you’ve always been shameless in your love of this particular activity -- and your tongue glides gently over his head and down along the side of the shaft. You feel his fingers clench in your hair and you groan, eyes rolling back in your head a little, as you take him all the way into your mouth. 

“Ohhhhh,” you hear him sigh, feel him practically sag with relief in front of you, like the pleasure he feels at the sensation of your lips around his cock is more than simple physicality. “Oh Dirk, that’s the ticket old chap, bloody hell.” 

You wonder vaguely if he’ll be sounding off like an old school newscaster for the duration of your mouth’s proximity to his dick. You’re ashamed to admit how much it turns you on. 

Jake’s fingers tighten until you have to let out a sharp gasp of air through your nose. He’s hard and even thicker than you’d anticipated, filling your mouth and just pressing at the back of your throat. You say a silent prayer to any god or devil listening for your minimal gag reflex as you shift a little, resting a hand against his hip to steady yourself before you begin.

“Hmmm,” you hear Jake make a little noise and you pause, confused. One of his hands releases your hair and removes the hand on his hip, firmly gripping your wrist. “And the other,” he says, his tone clear, assured, authoritative. “I’m far more intrigued by what you can do with that mouth of yours, Strider.” 

You fight the urge to swallow your nerves, your insides feeling doused with gasoline and set alight at the thought of him restraining you further. You lift up your other hand from where it previously had served to give you some balance, pressed against a crate of oranges, and he presses it against your other hand, pushing your palms together like your decision to kneel was holy instead of this sacrilege. His hand wraps around both your wrists securely, and you know that there’s no way you’d be able to break his grip. 

It’s exhilarating. 

“Good,” he murmurs. You’re still not sure how you can hear him through the thump and wub of the music on the other side of the door, but his voice carries down to you, cutting through the miasma of music like it’s the only sound your brain cares to acknowledge. “You’re being so good, Dirk, that feels bloody fantastic.” 

His praise makes you blush -- you aren’t sure how the hell he figured out you have *that* particular kink, wonder if maybe Roxy let slip more than just general suggestions of your crush in conversation -- but his hips stutter forward and you almost choke as he hits the back of your throat. You groan a little, leaning back, but his grip on your hair forces you to stay in place, lips pressed into the warm thatch of hair at his crotch, brushing against the curve of his balls. 

It’s hot as hell and you have to remind yourself to breathe as he pulls back, carefully, sliding almost all the way out of your mouth with agonizing slowness, like he’s trying to feel every millimeter of your mouth around him. 

He leans down to look at you, and you can hear the smile on his face when he speaks. “I acknowledge you’re in a bit of a compromising position here, chum,” he says. “If it gets to be a bit much, how’s about you snap your fingers in lieu of making use of the safeword, eh? Give me a snap if you agree.”

You snap the fingers of your left hand. Tricky with his grip on your wrists, but manageable.

“Excellent,” he says. 

Then he slams his hips forward. 

You gasp through your nose again, pain blossoming in the back of your throat, but instantly relieved as he pulls back, dragging your lips over his shaft with a smooth elegance. He clamps down on your hair harder as you make to lean forward, to follow him, and you catch on that he has a very specific idea of how he wants this exchange to go down. 

It’s like he knows you want him to use you. 

How did this man you just met read you like a fucking book? 

You hold very still as he lets out a quiet sigh, content again, another one that sounds more like the releasing of a great pressure rather than a simple hedonistic desire, and pushes forward again, his hips thrusting against you and his cock practically burying itself in your throat. Draws out again, slow and smooth, not quite leaving your mouth, then thrusts in again a little harder, a little deeper. 

“Oh bloody fiddlesticks fucking christ that’s aces,” Jake mumbles, and you feel your dick twinge in your pants, aching for freedom and pressure beyond tight confines. There’s nothing you can do about that though, your hands aren’t going anywhere and you’re being held in place by the hair. You have to kneel here, practically dangling from the grasp of Jake English, with no relief for your raging hard-on, while he fucks your face. 

It’s the sexiest thing that’s ever happened to you in your life. 

His dick slides deep into your mouth again, holds for a moment as he sighs, groans, draws back out again, and then jerks forward once, twice, three times, gets into a rhythm that has his balls slipping out of his shorts and slapping against your chin. You feel your eyes roll back in your head again at the overwhelming sensation of how deeply he buries himself in you and then draws back out, an orchestrated symphony of short thrusts and long dragging across your tongue. It’s all you can do to hang on at this point, to kneel and dangle from his hands as he takes his pleasure from you, uses your mouth and throat and tongue to let the springs of tension in his body uncoil. 

He’s still mumbling a little, more quiet words of whispered praise and enthusiasm tumbling from his lips and blending with the thrum and rumble of the music on the other side of the door. You can’t catch them all but you don’t need to, you know the sentiment, his slightly slurred litany of accolades burrowing deep into you and unwinding something normally so taut, so carefully controlled.

His gratitude placates a piece of you that’s so often screamed itself raw, and you feel yourself sinking into the warmth of it, the safe reassurance of it. You’re drawn deeper and deeper with every sweet thrust of Jake in and out of your mouth, every whispered word telling you that you feel so good, _so good Dirk, so perfect, look at you, you’re absolutely brilliant, this is just what I need Dirk, you’re just delightful, just beautiful_. 

When Jake calls you beautiful, you’re almost surprised to find you believe him without question. Light from the shifting electric effects of the club flashes under the cracks in the door and you glance up to see Jake staring down at you, his eyes wide, shining. He looks completely enraptured, almost enthralled by you and the way you hang almost slack in his grip but still stay in place, mouth open to receive him again and again. 

“Boy howdy,” he whispers, hips stuttering forward hard, and you feel him come hard against the back of your throat, gripping you almost tight enough to take out a handful of hair in the process. He holds you there a long moment and you groan, overwhelmed by the sudden burst of heat as he rolls down the back of your throat but eager, blissed out at how much he wanted this, he wanted this from you. 

He pulls back enough to let you swallow, and you lap your tongue against him, trying to coax out every last drop, as he gently loosens the grip on your hands, gives your hair another gentle tug to get you to release him from your mouth. “Steady on, old chap,” Jake mumbles, lowering your hands until he’s got them in a loose grip in front of you. He makes sure you’re steady before he uncurls the fingers of his other hand, not removing it entirely from your hair, which you’re grateful for because fuck it feels good, you’re almost afraid of how much you don’t want him to stop. 

Almost. 

He lets out another sigh, his demeanour almost night and day different from when the two of you had slammed your way into this little tryst. He’s looser, a little more openly eager and wild-eyed, and you see him carefully maneuver his dick back into his pants, tug his zipper up and leave his belt alone as he focuses on you again, smiles. “You’ve got an astounding talent for enthusiastic submission, Strider,” he says. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.” 

You shrug one shoulder, a little wobbly on your knees. “Know what I like,” you mumble, your voice a little thick, throat raw. “Seems you do too.” 

His smile widens and he carefully lowers himself to his knees to join you, face level with yours so you can see his flushed cheeks, feel the intensity of his green gaze on you. “It’s a pleasant surprise to find another person unafraid to bally well show that side of themselves, I must say,” he says. “Seems you’re full of surprises.” 

You feel your cheeks flush again, your head spinning a little. “Well, I wasn’t expecting Jake English the billionaire to facefuck me in the back room of my club, so we’ll call the whole day a surprise, what do you say?” 

He chuckles and leans in, giving you a kiss that makes your stomach twist with heat, your cock ache from neglect. You let out a truly mortifying little moan and he grins against your mouth, moving closer until his body is flush against yours again, one arm supporting you effortlessly under your arms. “I hope what happens next is no surprise,” he whispers, pressing his mouth against your ear so he knows you can hear him. 

You feel his free hand trail down your chest, towards the attempted tent in your jeans, and you’re less mortified by your moan. You’re so hard you think your dick might straight up fall off when it’s finally freed from your pants, but a few brief seconds of Jake’s skilled hands against your belt and zipper and you have sudden relief, at least for a moment. 

“There you are,” Jake whispers, and his hand closes around your cock and gives it a slow, almost experimental stroke. 

“ _Fuuuuuuck_ ,” you groan, jerking back and practically smacking your head against the door behind you. Jake keeps his grip on you and his arm is sturdy under your movement, and he helps you back so that you’re sitting with your back against the door and he’s kneeling over you, practically straddling you. He shifts his arm and slides his hand up the side of your face, giving you another kiss as his fingers wind their way into your hair again. 

He starts to tug at your hair once more and your hips jerk upwards, your dick thrusting into his hand automatically. His kiss turns into a smile and he holds you there, lips not quite touching as he runs his hand up and down your length, warm and tight and a little slick from the sweat of your bodies moving together, from the pre-cum leaking out of you. He hasn’t taken his eyes off of you and it’s almost devastatingly beautiful to watch him watching you like this, see his eyes glitter and widen with every porn-star gasp that his touch draws from your mouth. 

Nobody’s ever dragged noises like this out of you before, but then again nobody’s ever jerked you off like this before either, close and somehow deeply intimate, passionate and intense and strong, clear intent and need expressed and acknowledged.

It doesn’t fully surprise you that Jake English is dominant and assured of himself in affairs of physical pleasure. 

The surprise is that he wants to explore them with you. 

You want to ask him why. What drove him to be so bold as to suggest this scenario, to move in like an invading force and capture everything Dirk was willing to open up for him. Why you, why now, why here, why did it feel so good, how did he know what you wanted, what you needed? 

You don’t believe in coincidences, but there’s something to be said for cosmic destiny when it shows up in deep green eyes staring at you over the curling smoke of cigarettes in back alleys. 

Jake’s hands tug and stroke your questions out of your mind, his hands and the feel of his lips against yours driving you back to that place of deep warmth and blistering pleasure. 

You aren’t one to question providence, after all.

You moan again as his hands work you up, grip still tight on your hair as Jake maneuvers your neck to one side and he presses kisses into your collar bone, breathing heavy and hot and making you squirm in his grasp. Heat and pressure, fingers playing you like a musical instrument, you didn’t know you could be this loud, and you press the back of your hand against your mouth to try and stifle the worst of the noise even with the cacophony of the club behind you to drown it out. 

Jake grins, leaning forward and kissing your hand away from your mouth. “Don’t stop that now,” he whispers. “Nobody can hear you but me, and by Jove you sound just incredible.” 

His eyes flash in the shifting light that filters in from the world beyond the storage room, beautiful and earnest, and the combination of his whispered words and the grip he has on your hair dragging you up to the edge of your orgasm, hanging over the precipice as you gasp and groan his name, short sharp murmurs of ‘Jake, Jake, Jake’ as you clumsily feel your hips buck upward into his hand. 

“Dirk,” he whispers in your ear, and the sound of his words, the near reverence at which he speaks your name, tips you past the point of no return, spiraling down and coming hard into his hand, jerking, shaking, and coming utterly undone at his touch. 

You think you see stars. You know you still taste nicotine on your tongue. Everything else is blanked out bliss. 

After a few moments, Jake reaches over and grabs what looks like one of the towels the servers uses to clean the bar. He wipes his hand off, gentle, and tidies you up without question. You blush again at his surprising tenderness. Not that you were expecting him to kick you to the curb or anything, but it isn’t something you’re used to. 

He smiles as you zip yourself up, buckles his own belt, and gets to his feet, offering a hand to help you in turn. You accept it, a little unsteady, but he holds you firm, still rock solid and sturdy. 

“Doing all right old sport?” Jake asks. His tone is almost affectionate. You don’t know what to make of that, your head's still spinning. 

“Yeah,” you manage, swallowing and taking a deep breath. “Yeah, good to go. Uh,” you glance around the storage room like you expect somebody to pop out from behind a keg and snap a picture. “We shouldn’t leave here together. In case anyone’s watching.” 

Jake nods, looking a little disappointed despite knowing the need for discretion. “Suppose you’d best be getting back to work, eh?” he asks. “I’ve caused you quite the distraction, it seems.”

“It was a welcome distraction,” you remind him, suddenly feeling almost bashful. “I… wouldn’t object to more welcome distractions later.” 

His eyebrows go up and he positively beams at you, his whole face now a smile. “That,” he says. “Would be the bees fucking knees, Strider.” 

You laugh, head still reeling a little. “We close up at two,” you say. “And I live upstairs. If you wanna stick around.” 

Jake leans forward, gives you a kiss on the cheek, smiles knowingly. Then he steps around you and opens the door, slipping out into the anonymous crush of the crowd.

You wait a minute or two, trying to collect yourself and stand upright without feeling like you’re about to turn into a pile of jello on the floor. Your breath catches in your throat thinking about what the fuck just happened, and you wonder if you’d just fallen prey to some kind of ridiculous fever dream or hallucination. 

The entire encounter seems so ephemeral now that Jake is gone, and you straighten yourself out as best you can before you return to your post behind the bar. Jake English could have literally anyone he wanted in this bar, on this planet, hell, probably throughout the known galaxy, and he was a man who got what he wanted, whether it was acquiring Alternian companies or putting a bartender on his knees in the back room. 

You wanted all of it, no question about it, and you feel the kind of used that satisfies that itch in the back of your head that never seems to go away no matter how many liaisons you have with strangers or lovers. 

Another memory to soothe you on your lonely nights. 

You step back out into the heaving crowd, making your way across the dance floor and relieving your staff behind the bar. None of them look too concerned at your absence, and you feel content to let the events of the evening fade into history. 

You don’t expect you’ll ever see Jake English again. 

You certainly don’t expect to see him sitting at the end of the bar. 

He meets your eyes and grins, forming his hands into the shape of guns and winking at you. You almost drop the bottle of vodka you’re holding. 

Seems your night is just beginning. 

You’re gonna need another cigarette.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's chapter two! Not sure how long it'll be before I actually get chapter 3 up and rolling, but I do want to write at least one more part to this, so stay tuned!


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